


In Darkness Dwelling

by lirallya



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Falkreath (Elder Scrolls), Gen, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29405034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirallya/pseuds/lirallya
Summary: There is a place, somewhere off the west road out of Falkreath, where death courts the curious.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8
Collections: 30PlusFanfic Prompt Channel Fics





	In Darkness Dwelling

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: "darkness"

There is a place, somewhere off the west road out of Falkreath, where death courts the curious. 

Locals speak of it only in hushed tones—a whisper, lip to ear, or merely a weighted glance, so that their words do not hang in the air any longer than is required. They speak of it mostly to warn travelers against venturing too close. Stick to the road, they advise. Should you find yourself drawn off the trail, best to turn back and try again tomorrow. 

It is not marked on any map; some say for fear of naming it, of committing it to ink. But that presupposes it can always be found in precisely the same location. This place is deep in the woods; shrouded by old growth, the sun never quite seems to rise there. A murky, ocher light is all that can filter through the dense tangle. 

None can claim to know exactly what lures a traveler off the road. It could be as simple as a series of careless steps; however, some believe it more fatalistic—a certain celestial alignment, a hargraven’s curse, or perhaps even the will of Sithis himself. 

No matter the cause, the unwary will suddenly find the air around them grown thick and sour, encouraging their limbs to sluggishness. They begin to forget how they even arrived in such a place. These misguided visitors are said to wander, trapped in the ensnaring gloom, until spectral whispers drive them mad. 

And yet there does exist a path, for those with the eye to perceive it. While it may be obscured by branch and bramble, the way is plain if one simply follows the signs: a withered vine resembling a human hand, the nicker of a phantom horse, a pool of black water, a door. 

The door, they say, can only be found by those who come willingly, with blackness in their hearts. 

It is what you seek now—the door, and the promise within. 

You find the vine easily; one shriveled tendril curled in a come-hither motion welcomes you to the darkling path. To you the air here is luxuriant; it wraps you in a velvet embrace. The sweet aroma of decay permeates your senses. It thrills you, reminds you of nights spent prowling the Hall of the Dead, exulting in your handiwork. 

A wraithlike horse with eyes of burning coals dips its head to drink from a black pool, so dark it seems to gather to it what little daylight remains. But your eyes were made for sunless skies. You anoint yourself from the tenebrous waters and the shadows drip from you like ink. Susurrant voices urge you forward. They reassure you that you’ve come the right way. 

And you’ve come so far—traversed the icy north of Haafingar, navigated the treacherous Reach, evaded capture in Whiterun Hold. All because you felt the pull—felt the Black Door calling to you.

You’ve felt it your whole life. A pull towards darkness, towards violence. There’s a voice that murmurs in your ear, not unlike the ones you hear now. It speaks to you when night is its blackest, encourages your impulses. It grows louder, until you can hear almost nothing else. It begs for blood.

And you are happy to bestow it. There’s nothing quite like that first moment when your knife pierces flesh, soft and sweet as a lover’s kiss. Your blood swells and sings with the ecstasy of it. To cut, to carve—you crave it, and all that comes with it: a scream that dies, gurgling, in the throat; the spark of life as it flickers and burns out of the eyes; the exquisite silence that follows the last, gasping rattle.

The Black Door, and what lies beyond, is the stuff of rumor and folktale, but you know it to be real. You’ve seen their sigil on discarded scraps of paper, come across the remnants of a ritual asked and answered. Everywhere the signs, a trail of death leading you to this very place. And the voice promises you finding it will grant eternal reward for your profane devotion. A place you need not fear reprisal. A place where your gifts are celebrated, demanded. Where your soul is free to feast on darkness.

There! Just ahead, a low hill you don’t recall seeing the last time you blinked. Set into the rising earth, a door. There is no mistaking this is the Black Door you seek. A skull, carved into ancient stone. A bloody handprint, oozing as if freshly placed. A faint sigh, as if the stone itself is breathing. The steady thump of a distant heartbeat. 

You appear before the door without even being aware of how your feet carried you there. The heartbeat thumps louder; it joins with your own in a harmonious rhythm. Like you, it desires blood, covets it. You take your favored knife, a cruel curve of ebony, and drag it across your palm. Every beat of your heart now pumps fresh ichor from the wound. Every heart from which you've claimed the final beat has led you to this sacred moment.

The anticipation throbbing in your hand and heart crescendos to an almost unbearable level, seizing you in a glorious delirium. With a shuddering sigh you reach out and align your palm with the bloody print, your black heart rejoicing at the unholy joining. The stone stirs beneath your hand as if roused from a deep slumber.

The Black Door speaks, its voice harsh and rasping, like the scrape of metal on bone:

_"What is the music of life?”_

You know the answer. You have always known. It is why you come.

“Silence, my brother.” 

The door exhales, like the opening of a long-sealed tomb.

_“Welcome home.”_

**Author's Note:**

> This is my canon-divergent take on the Dark Brotherhood, where a malevolent, supernatural quality lures people to the Falkreath Sanctuary. This is just a one-off idea I had that won't likely be developed further, but I had fun writing something spooky. Hope you enjoy! Hail Sithis.


End file.
